My mother, flustered and annoyed, kicked the lunchbox on the floor.
"You've eaten like this your whole life, Sylvia. I only took what your sister liked—not leftovers. Why are you nitpicking?"
I couldn't hold back any longer and shouted, "Do you think I like it? I have no choice!"
Melody was a picky eater, only picking at the things she liked. The leftovers were either mine or my mother's.
I was young back then. My mother said kids shouldn't be picky eaters, patting my head and praising me as a good child.
But it wasn't that kids shouldn't be picky—it was that I couldn't be picky.
As I grew older, I understood my mother's favoritism, yet I said nothing to preserve the surface calm.
I watched her shower most of her love on my sister, all while insisting she wasn't biased.
I endured it.
But when night fell and all was quiet, I couldn't sleep.
I was not asking for perfect fairness, but surely she couldn't show such blatant favoritism?
I wasn't adopted, after all.
"These are all trivial matters. Why do you have to dwell on them? Don't you know I hate this calculating attitude of yours the most?”
“Melody is different—unassuming and generous. If you were like her, how could I not cherish you?"